


The Queen's Bishop

by grabmotte



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Assassins, Bishop in distress, Canon-Typical Violence, How They Met, M/M, Nightmares, When they were young, meets hot-blooded young soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 01:25:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13043628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grabmotte/pseuds/grabmotte
Summary: On his way to Paris the young soldier Jean de Treville happens upon a very unusual bishop in very definite need of a rescue.Featuring:Jean -a boy from Gascony.Jolie -his loyal steed.Luçon -a bishop in distress.





	The Queen's Bishop

**I.**  


When the doctor had finally pronounced him fit to ride again, Jean had jumped with joy. The day they had brought him to Troisville in a carriage with a shot-through thigh Jean had decided that he wasn't going to return to Paris any other way than on horseback. He wanted to travel – and be seen travelling – like a soldier and nobleman, rather than having to rent coaches like a woman or child.

A week ago, after a refresher in court etiquette and with a sack holding an extra change of clothes finer than any of his other possessions, Jean had taken his leave of his mother and sister and set out on the road for the long journey home from Troisville to Paris. 

His mother had warned him that he might find himself more exhausted by his journey than he expected to, but although riding meant exposing himself to the whims of the early spring weather, Jean was used to much worse travelling conditions than cold wind and rain from his regiment's latest campaign in the Alps. Riding also allowed him the chance to get acquainted with all the quirks of his new horse. 

His own horse. The mare turned one of her ears back attentively as he patted her neck.

_His own horse._

The thought still made him giddy.

Once Jean had been well on his way to convalescence, his mother had not only arranged a trip to the tailor for him, but they had travelled all the way to the horse fair at Lourdes to buy him a suitable mount. 

The horse fair had proven a great distraction from Jean's ache for Paris. His sister Louise, too, had been excited by all the horses, the foals and young fillies in particular, until it had fallen to their mother to remind her that they had come to buy a horse for Jean, not his sister. A young filly, no matter how soft its eye, was not what he needed. They could have bought an untrained young horse anywhere, but Jean needed a horse that wouldn't run from the noise of a gunshot or shy at the smells of blood and smoke.

Eventually they had settled on a six-year-old dark bay mare of 16 hands, innocently named Jolie, who had been trained by a veteran cavalry officer whose family had been selling horses to the supporters of Henri de Navarre since the beginning of the Wars of Religion. Yet, the mare's patriotic background had not stopped the Lady of Troisville from practicing all her haggling skills on the poor seller. Her son deserved to ride into Paris on a horse fit for a king, but the rest of the family still needed to eat.

Jean had embraced his mother as soon as the reins had exchanged hands, so to speak, and Marie de Troisville, although not prone to displays of affection, had returned the gesture.

This time Jean would not be reliant on his parent's cast-offs as he made his way to Paris. This time he would arrive at the garrison on his own horse.

It felt strange to leave his family again, but he couldn't wait to return to Paris. 

He had spent most of his time in Troisville locked up in the family manor, seeing no one but his mother and sister and their servants, but even when he had started to walk again he had kept mostly to himself.

His mother had not once insisted he accompany his sister Louise when she joined the small Catholic community in the neighbouring town for mass. It appeared as though now that he had made it into a prestigious regiment and had been noticed by his betters, Marie de Treville had little concern left about the fate of her son's eternal soul. Or perhaps she finally felt a pang of conscience for having made her children convert to Catholicism at a young age. Jean didn't know. He hadn't spoken to her about religion and God since the day she had forbidden him and his siblings from taking part even in the private, protestant family services that they had grown up with.

Whenever he went outside it was at his sister's side, who was fluent in the Basque tongue spoken by the inhabitants of their village and appeared to get along well with the entire community of Troisville. He never saw her having to hesitate calling anyone by their name and asking how they were doing.

He didn't share his sister's affinity for languages or socialising. Learning French well enough not to be laughed at in Paris had been hard enough, and whatever made Louise so much more popular with the locals than the rest of her family, Jean was happy to remain at the side-lines of her social interactions.

Troisville was not the place he wanted to be. He had no interest in a town in which he would always be a stranger, removed from its people by rank, language, and his religious feelings. He could not imagine staying here, not when his star was finally beginning to rise in Paris. 

While he had been stuck in his mother's house, he had eaten up every letter sent to him by his comrades racking his brain trying to figure out how to respond to them without sounding too desperate for their company.

Towards the end of his stay in Troisville there had even been a personal letter from his Captain, reminding him – after enquiring about his health and renewed praise for his bravery that Jean could not read without blushing in pleasure – of the date he was expected to be back in Paris and warning him not to dawdle.

As though Jean was going to miss this opportunity for anything in the world. As if he would tarry any longer than he had to in this place that had never been a true home to him, when what awaited him in Paris were the highest honours, and the highest hopes. 

The Captain was going to introduce him to court after the parade held in celebration of the Queen's birthday, and commend him to the King for his bravery. 

The King.

Jean was going to meet _the King_.

Not bad for the son of a Béarnais merchant who had only been in Paris for little more than a year.

Jean couldn't hold the bout of laughter that burst out of him at the thought of how his life had turned out and Jolie flicked an ear towards him.

So far Jolie was proving a very relaxed travelling companion. She got curious about the other horses they encountered on the road, but for the week that they had been on the road she had never done anything more dramatic than pricking her ears. 

Jean decided to let her run for a bit to keep warm. He loved the way she moved so smoothly. He didn't even feel the ache in his injured leg after an entire day in the saddle.

Soon, she would have to show her mettle under more difficult conditions. Once they arrived in Paris, they would take part in the parade. Afterwards, Jean expected to resume his training as one of the King's Carabins, a light cavalry unit King Henri himself had formed after he had taken the throne.

But all of that was still a couple of days in the future. Jean suppressed a yawn as he directed Jolie through the gates of the roadside inn he hoped to stay at for the night. Evening had fallen, but although there were some guests waiting in the courtyard to have their mounts and vehicles taken care of, it didn't look as though the inn was so full it couldn't accommodate another traveller.

Just as he dismounted a coach was drawing up behind him, spilling a quartet of young children who were obviously excited to be out of the tiny coach. Jean took a moment to help their mother unload their luggage, as she was apparently travelling alone apart from her children and an elderly servant. 

When he finally led Jolie to the stables he waved the ostler away, preferring to care of her tack himself, since the set was still new, including the blanket in the blue and gold colours of his regiment that his mother had made for him during the winter. After rubbing down his horse with straw and seeing that food and water were provided, he took his saddlebags and arms into the inn's public room where the publican immediately knew him for a soldier. By the way the man's face lit up, Jean guessed that he would even have found a bed here had the inn been overrun with guests. That was by no means a common reaction. Not all innkeepers valued the common soldiers' typical love of drink over their reputation of being raucous and noisome customers who were often short of coin. 

"You travelling with anyone?"

Jean shook his head. The fact that he had shown up alone was doubtlessly part of why the innkeeper was happy to see him. A soldier without his comrades was less likely to make a nuisance of himself.

"I'm returning to my regiment in Paris," he said and added, because he couldn't help himself, "for a commendation." 

"Well done," the innkeeper said, even though he couldn't possibly have any idea of what Jean had done on that mountain. "But you ain't getting anything for free here."

Jean shrugged, but his smile disappeared. Of course, it was too much to expect that he should get anything for free in this hole for taking charge of his company after being left on a freezing mountain without orders, and charging them at an enemy formation to break a siege that would have cost the King a strategically vital fortress if it had been left to continue even a day longer, before getting shot through the leg by an Italian musketeer.

No longer in the mood for conversation, Jean paid for a bed, dinner and a bottle of cheap wine and went looking for a corner table away from the other guests where he hoped to be left alone. Just at that moment the ache in his leg decided to flare up again. He barely made it to the chair in time. Damn the doctor who had claimed that there was nothing wrong with his leg when he had told him of the returning pains. He would have to remind Mother to send for a physician who was less of a quack next time – if his cramping leg didn't make him fall of his horse and break his neck before that. 

As he retrieved his spoon and cup from his bags, Jean reminded himself that at least he was about to get a royal audience for his troubles, which he guessed was good enough, but as he rubbed his aching leg it didn't seem so glamorous anymore.

He only gave the room a cursory glance as he waited for his food, lest anyone should feel tempted to talk to him. It was a decent crowd that had gathered at the inn, if not the wealthiest. The largest table in the middle of the room was taken up by what looked a group of drapers. The woman and her children he had helped earlier were seated for dinner farther in the back, next to a pair of liveried men who were likely messengers. Opposite from them sat what looked like a group of merchants or peddlers. The mother looked up when she spotted him, as though she expected him to join her, but Jean had lost his appetite for conversation. 

He took a drink from his cup, barely tasting the wine before he swallowed, and waited for the stinging in his leg to disappear. 

More people entered as he ate and drank, and a few left, despite the increasing lateness of the hour – they probably lived nearby – but Jean paid them only enough attention to judge whether any of them could possibly cause trouble.

He had just finished his stew and was cleaning the bowl with what remained of his piece of dark bread, when a large group of men entered. They caught his attention immediately, as they all wore rather similar looking, dark traveller's cloaks over their doublets and they were arguing among themselves. There were eight of them, all tall and broad-shouldered, and their voices, if not their words could be heard over the noise the other guests made. 

They were also headed towards Jean's corner of the room, making him check to if his pistols were loaded. Just in case.

The man leading them to their table – just as tall as his companions, but not nearly as heavily built – hissed at them to be quiet. "There's no money at all if you can't obey simple orders!" Whatever he was referring to, he was only partially successful in stopping the argument.

As they came closer, sitting down at the next table over, Jean could see that the hissing man was better dressed than the others. Although his clothes were as dark as his companions' Jean could make out the intricate patterns woven into his cloak and gloves, and there was a golden eagle feather in his hat that he had neglected to take off. Although that broad-brimmed hat he had cast half his face in shadow, it was obvious that the man's thin, dark moustache and goatee were neatly trimmed in a way that his companions' beards were not. Despite the similarity in the colour and style of their coats, the other men looked ungroomed compared to the noble figure in their midst.

Jean also noticed that the richly dressed man's companions were all heavily armed. The swords at their sides were unmistakable, and after a year spent with the Carabins Jean was able to easily spot the bulges underneath their cloaks that told him each of them was carrying at least one pistol.

A nobleman and a not too shabby escort, Jean concluded. However, by the way they argued, they were evidently not a very happy escort, a fact which the other guests were beginning to pick up on as well.

The liveried messengers remained unconcerned, playing a game of cards, but the merchants were sending darks looks their way, and the mother looked as though she would like nothing better than to take her children and disappear upstairs to the bedrooms, and was only hesitating because the children hadn't finished eating yet.

The escort continued their argument with their employer indifferent to the content atmosphere they were disrupting. They had lowered their voices, but Jean could still hear them mumble until the nobleman shot them down again. He was speaking so softly this time that if his companions hadn't fallen silent, Jean would not have been able to tell that he had spoken at all.

Only when the men started returning his looks did Jean realise that maybe he had been staring. 

"And what is your problem, boy?" The man who had spoken had a particularly hostile glint in his eyes as he appraised Jean with a patronising look.

"Not very polite," Jean answered boldly, "disturbing your host's customers." Jean was a soldier in the King's finest regiment. He was not going to be intimidate by a cheap nobleman's guard with just a look. He returned the man's gaze in a calm manner, focusing on how ridiculous the man's patchy beard made him look. The guard had clearly grown it in a failed attempt to hide his cleft lip.

"And who are you?" The man smirked. "The—"

"He's a soldier, isn't that right?" It was the nobleman who had spoken. Now that he was neither hissing nor whispering, Jean could tell that he had a rich, pleasant voice that reminded him of Belgard, and spoke accent-free French. He too, was looking at Jean, but the wide hat prevented him from seeing his eyes, and despite the pleasant voice, Jean couldn't help but feel uneasy under that unseen gaze.  
"King's own," Jean said without hesitation. "I'm re-joining my regiment in Paris."

"Is that so," the man said. As he leaned back in his chair, just for a moment, Jean could see his eyes. The stranger's face quickly disappeared again beneath the shadow of his hat, but Jean was sure there had been something uncertain about the look in his eyes, a kind of anxiety.

He must have been mistaken. The rest of the man's demeanour – the relaxed way in which he sat, the rough manner in which he handled the men escorting him although they were twice his size – nothing in his attitude indicated anything other than confidence.

"Why do you care who he is?" the guard with the cleft chin growled. "Just let me throw him out. I—" 

The man in the wide hat hissed at his bodyguard again to shut him up and the man with the patchy beard hissed right back, so Jean felt free to return his eyes to his cup. Whatever these men were fighting about, it was none of his business. Jean only had to take care that he reached Paris in time for the parade. 

Under the table, his leg ached.

Getting into a fight with a recent injury was unwise. He shouldn't even have spoken up. If his leg gave out during a duel, he was dead, which was a sound enough reason to let the man's provocation slide.

Back when he had come to Paris for the first time, he would surely have taken offense, but now that he was a year older and so much wiser he had to act more mature. Noblemen who were about to be blessed with the chance to lay eyes on the King and Queen had no business breaking their heads over ill-tempered men at a roadside inn.

Jean raised his cup to his lips and emptied what was left in a single gulp. Wiping his mouth, he stood up and cast one last look round the room before he made to leave.

The nobleman and his escort were already back to arguing and getting louder again, but even though some of the other guests continued to throw them dark looks, nobody said anything.

Jean turned his back on the whole lot of them. It was still a long ride till Paris and he needed to go to bed and rest if he intended to make it to his next planned stop by the following evening. Let the innkeeper handle that group if they bothered him – without Jean's help. After all, nothing in this world was for free. 

Jean merely regretted that he'd have to go to sleep with his mood thoroughly ruined.  


* * *

  
"On me!", he shouts, pistol in hand. The company reply with a yell of their own, but Jean can barely hear them. The pounding of blood in his ears is loud enough to drown out the sounds of the horses' hooves drumming on the harsh rock, crunching the half-frozen snow. 

Jean crosses the distance between the mouth of the pass and the enemy's vulnerable flank in a daze. He only knows he's yelling again because his mouth is open and his throat is sore from the strain and the cold. 

The company echoes him. Their war cries make a hundred men out of thirty. It is what the surviving enemy soldiers will claim later – they came at us like devils, a hundred riders on dark horses. Now they break. They break before the dark flood. Jean shoots one of them who doesn't run in the face. He draws his second pistol before the ruin of what remains of the soldier's head hits the ground. 

When his guns are spent he draws his sword. His horse is still running, charging fearlessly as though it's chasing a buck in a meadow. As though there is no gunfire, no screaming, no battlefield. Jean can hear all of it, but he can't describe it. There is no sound and too much sound all at once.

Jean doesn't notice the pain in his right thigh until he sees the entire enemy flank turn, break apart, and run from his company. He almost drops the reins in shock, but he manages to burrow one of his hands into his horse's mane. He can't fall; they're still running; the company is still following him. He can't fall. He can't fall. They can't _see_. His right hand begins to hurt as he takes his sword in a death-grip and cuts down another soldier – some mad fool who must have realised that they were just boys and charged them. 

His horse carries Jean another ten meters, and another. He doesn't remember falling. He only remembers Charlie de Foix' face hovering above him, and he remembers that there were tears in eyes, but that can't be true, because de Foix never cries.  


* * *

  
Jean awoke to his leg aching. He bit down on his pillow to suppress a moan. Had it ever been this bad before? He lay awake until the pain subsided, watching the dim, otherworldly glow of dawn seep into the room with tears in his eyes. He decided to leave the inn after an early breakfast, before the men he was sharing a room with could hear him cry.  


* * *

  
**II.**

It didn't take him long to find the nobleman and his escort again. Jean had given Jolie free rein for a bit as they were passing low green wheat field after wheat field, when Jolie had pricked her ears and directed his attention to the men arguing on the side of the road. The last time he had encountered a roadside argument between that many people had been when he had passed a carriage that had broken down. But this time all the men involved were on horseback, arguing with broad gestures and loud voices, except for the nobleman, who spoke too softly to be heard over his shouting companions.

Jean was too far away to make out what they were saying, but he immediately recognised the nobleman with the eagle feather in his broad-brimmed hat, even though he appeared to have lost one of his companions – there were only seven of them now. 

He hadn't seen them at the inn this morning, so they had to have left while it was still dark. Perhaps they had been looking for the missing man?

Jean resisted the urge to check his pistols too obviously as he drew closer. Perhaps it would be better to avoid them entirely and take a detour before they spotted him, but it was impossible to disappear in these open fields. The young wheat barely reached Jolie's knees. He should just move on and ignore them, even in the unlikely case that they hailed him. Last night they had made it clear that their argument was none of his business.

But Jean also remembered the anxious look he thought the nobleman had given him in the brief moment that he had been able (or perhaps allowed?) to see his eyes.

He could ride on and try to never think about the nobleman, his guards, or that intense look in his eyes again. He should ride on. What was he going to do against six armed guards?

"Bonjour, messieurs," he called as he approached. "Is something the matter? You appear to have lost a man." 

Some members of the escort smiled at him, but the nobleman didn't. Although Jean still couldn't see more than half of his face, he was aware of the nobleman staring at him with a dark frown. The beautiful, chestnut horse he sat on flicked its ears nervously.

He should have just ridden on and left the group to their own devices.

"Our friend had other matters to attend to, Monsieur," said one of the bodyguards and Jean recognised the man with the patchy beard. "As, I presume, do you. Why don't you go and be on your way, _Monsieur_ , and we'll be on our way?"

Jean ignored him and the aggressive fashion in which he had pronounced ' _Monsieur_ ' and continued to hold the nobleman's gaze. 

"I was talking to your employer," he said. He swallowed. "I'm returning to my regiment in Paris for the festivities. We could travel together. I could use the company. "

"We're not going to Paris," the man with the patchy beard hissed and Jean could see the nobleman take a deep breath. He listened for the familiar click of a hammer being pulled back on a pistol.

"Perhaps you'd best ride on, Monsieur." 

As the nobleman spoke up, the shadows on his face briefly lightened and Jean's gaze was met by sparkling grey eyes. Under less ambiguous circumstances he could have easily convinced Jean that there was no trouble, but as it was Jean had to fight to keep the sour expression off his face. With Belgard and de Foix by his side he would have been able to get to the bottom of this mystery, but since he was alone on the road with half a dozen ill-tempered, armed men and not even the nobleman seemingly interested in his mediation there was nothing left for him to do but ride on and forget the incident. 

Deliberately forgoing a polite tone as he voiced his apology Jean turned Jolie around and made her trot away at a fast pace just shy of a canter.

He could sense Patchy Beard laughing at his back. 

What a fool he was. _Lone travellers should stick to their own problems_ , Jean scolded himself, biting his lips in anger.

But even as Jolie trotted on, along the fields and down the bend in the road, even as Jean tried to imagine the parade and the feast he would soon take part in to distract himself, he couldn't get the nobleman out of his head. He hadn't asked for Jean's mediating, he had given no indication as to what he wanted the young soldier to do, but he certainly was in need of help.

Jean reined in Jolie, making her walk at a slower pace.

Not every member of the escort had smiled at him with that false politeness. The faces of at least two of the men had been just as grim as that of their employer. 

Turning his head, he could still see them across the flat, green fields. They were mounted atop their horses, standing bunched together, and although Jean had already ridden too far away to be able to make out their gestures or even hear their voices, the breaking up of the group into two factions was clear for him to see. 

Jolie immediately turned her ears towards him, curious, as he made her stop, but he had eyes only for the nobleman and his escort. Two of the riders were breaking away, turning their backs on their employer and taking back off in the direction of the inn. A third rider followed them shortly. 

Jean thought he could make out the nobleman ordering his remaining companions back onto the road with a harsh gesture, but if that's what he did, they only obeyed him very reluctantly. 

Reluctantly, Jean stopped his mount from turning her bit into a grass-stained mess before spurring her back into motion – just a slow walking pace as he kept watching the nobleman and his remaining guards.

That's when Jean heard the shot.

One member of the escort was on the ground, another, presumably the man who had taken the shot, was riding off in the same direction as his friends. The last guard was taking aim at the deserter, but a shout from his employer pointed out new targets. 

There were more riders. Jean hadn't seen them before and neither had the nobleman apparently. They were coming through the fields, trampling a good portion of the young wheat at full gallop.

There were five of them, and although they didn't stand a chance, the nobleman and his last remaining guard turn to face them with a pistol in each hand. 

Cursing, Jean spurred Jolie to go faster the way they had come.

He watched, still too far away to do anything, as the nobleman and his remaining companion stood took out two of the approaching riders with their guns.

Then, the nobleman turned his horse and fled, his mount taking off as if the devil was after it, while the guard drew his sword and charged. It was self-slaughter.

The approaching riders discharged their pistols into his chest before he had a chance to use his blade, leaving his killers free to hunt down the fleeing nobleman. 

Jean put the spurs to Jolie. The riders were close enough now for Jean to realise that their yelling sounded more like a dialect he'd hear in Troisvilles than French. They sounded Spanish.

They had some trouble hitting a target moving away from them rapidly, but the nobleman's horse eventually went down to what had to be the Spaniards' last shot. Their horses ate up the distance between them and their victim within moments.

Pressing his heels to Jolie's sides, praying that she would somehow be able to run even faster, Jean drew his sword with one hand and cocked a pistol with the other. Bewildered and excited, the warhorse ran on, as fast as her hooves would carry her. As they drew closer to their targets, the biting smell of gunpowder, smoke and blood made her nostrils flare, but the battle-lust of her rider spurred her on.

Jean was almost upon the riders when he started yelling like he had on that Alpine battlefield – he yelled like a devil on a demon horse.

The three Spaniards stopped moving in on their helpless victim, and turned to face this new threat. One of them looked up just in time to catch a pistol ball with his throat, spraying Jean's face with gore as he rode passed him.

Jean thrust his cavalry sword at his second target as if he were holding a lance, slicing open his neck from jaw to spine. The man's shorter sabre fell useless from his hands as he was thrown from the saddle. Jean's had his second pistol in hand to dispatch the last man before the dead rider hit the ground, but the Spaniard was already getting out of a range fast at a full, desperate gallop.

With his pistol at the ready, Jean watched until the rider had fully disappeared from view before he jumped from his horse. While Jolie kept watch, tail and ears flicking in excitement, he walked over to the bodies of the men he had felled, convincing himself that they were truly dead. 

Only then did he dash to the side of his nobleman, who was sitting up next to the dead body of his horse. He had lost his hat and Jean could clearly see the bewildered look on his face.

"Are you injured?"

"I…" The stranger needed a moment to gather his wits about him. "I don't think so," he said, sounding decidedly more shaken than the last time Jean had heard him speak. Whoever the nobleman was, he was not used to fighting for his life – even though he had managed to shoot a man coming at him at full gallop.

"Thank you," the nobleman managed eventually, looking as much in awe of his luck as looked grateful. "I am fortunate we crossed paths again."

Despite the way his heart pounded, Jean felt himself smile. "My pleasure," he said, and offered the man his hand. 

The stranger's legs would not obey him at first try when Jean pulled him up.

"Careful, you took quite a fall."

Just to be cautious Jean threw out a steadying arm to keep him on his feet, but the nobleman regained his composure quickly. After a moment or two he appeared stable enough on his two feet, concerning himself with wiping the muck from his cloak that had been dirtied by his fall. If this was the worst damage he had sustained tumbling from his horse, then Jean guessed that was alright. 

"I'll survive." The nobleman continued to busy himself with his clothes and Jean quickly looked away when he saw the man's hands tremble.

It was only now that Jean realised that his own limbs were steady – including his leg. This had been the first battle he had fought after being shot, but his body had remembered his training immediately. He hadn't even needed to think before throwing himself in the Spaniards' path.

Granting them both a moment of privacy Jean took another chance to look around to where Jolie has started to graze. She deserved an entire bucket of oats for her exemplary behaviour during her first battle. 

Holding on firmly to his second pistol, Jean looked across the fields and perked up his ears for any sign of the escaped attacker or the fled escort returning. But he heard and saw nothing. 

Whatever the Spaniards had been after, it appeared that the surviving man had given up for now. 

But that didn't mean he wouldn't eventually return.

Jean took the time to reload his spent pistols before he walked back over to the stranger. The nobleman looked unhurt apart from a bruise on his jaw. He had lost nothing but his hat in the fall, revealing a head of dark brown curls. Jean couldn't help but notice how soft his hair looked just before he became aware of the stranger returning his inquiring gaze. The nobleman had finished brushing off every piece of dust that could possibly have clung to his cloak and was mustering Jean with a pair of piercing, silver-grey eyes so pale they made Jean's breathing hitch. They could give a man the impression of looking right through him.

"Thank you," the nobleman repeated with a brief smile so bright that it broke the spell of his piercing eyes. The man looked younger than Jean had originally assumed. He couldn't be thirty yet. 

The man's stature reminded Jean of Belgard's slender frame, but he clearly lacked the soldier's lean muscles, making him appear lighter and frailer. Even though the man was taller than his rescuer by at least half a head Jean was convinced he could pick him up if he had to.

"If you're looking for compensation I'm afraid I don't have much on me at this time," the nobleman said as he met Jean's appraising look with a guarded expression, "but you can trust your bravery will be repaid. And you may rest your soul easy tonight, knowing that you helped a bishop in grave need."

"A bishop?" Jean snorted. He couldn't stop himself. There were likely a myriad of good reasons for the stranger to want to keep his identity secret from someone he had only just met after being attacked on the open road. After the way he had been abandoned by half of his escort Jean couldn't blame him, not for the secrecy, and nor for trying to reassure this strange soldier of his goodwill in any way he could come up with. But still Jean felt it was rude to lie so blatantly to your rescuer. 

"More like a choir boy," he concluded.

The stranger's grey eyes flashed. "How dare you?"

Jean forced himself to take a deep breath. "Pardon me if I offended you, but you can't possibly expect me to believe you're a bishop."

"Appearances can be deceptive. You for one wear the garb of a soldier, but it's hard to believe you didn't only just pry yourself from your mother's skirts," the nobleman scoffed. "Who do you think you are to question me?"

"I believe I'm the one who just rescued you."

The man huffed and shook his head, before turning away to walk over to his dead comrades. His walk was so unsteady that he nearly stumbled, but Jean no longer cared if he fell.

If not for him the nobleman would be lying next to his dead guards, and yet the self-proclaimed bishop had turned his back on him.

 

Jean could feel the anger burn on his face. He stalked over to the stranger, ready to confront him, ready to make him turn around and look at him, when the man sank to his knees next to the nearest corpse. 

Jean's temper cooled immediately. He walked around to the stranger's side, but remained at a distance to allow the man whatever privacy he required in the face of his companions' death.

But then the stranger undid the loops at his collar and reached inside his doublet to retrieve a heavy, golden cross on a chain.

There was no decoration on it, but Jean didn't doubt that it was made of pure gold. He watched in surprise and fascination as the alleged bishop made the sign of the cross over the corpses, friend and foe alike, saying a prayer as he did so. Just as custom and compassion required of a man in God's service.

Watching him, Jean could not help but join in. Although the half remembered words from the prayers of his childhood came to his lips only haltingly, he knew he would have felt ashamed to refuse this service. They were words shared by Catholics and Protestants alike, and Jean felt himself calm down as he silently asked for mercy and forgiveness for the departed souls.

"I'm sorry." It was all he could think of to say once the stranger was done and raised himself back to his feet. This time all of his limbs obeyed him.

"So you do have some manners after all."

Jean felt his temper return as quickly as it had abated, but the self-proclaimed bishop, done with provoking him, exhaled a long breath. 

"You really don't know who I am." A smile pulled at the corners of the man's mouth. "Your regimental colours." The nobleman gestured at him and Jolie, and Jean looked at his clothes as if he saw them for the first time. He was wearing a sash in the same colours as Jolie's tack.

"You're a Carabin. The King's latest pet project. You're garrisoned in Paris and yet you have no idea who I am."

Jean felt too bewildered to say anything. A bunch of prayers and a golden cross did not make a bishop, yet…

"Perhaps this will help jog your mind." As he spoke the stranger pulled a satchel from his clothes from which he retrieved a ring. He removed the glove from his right hand – which was slim and white like a scholar's hand – and put the ring on, holding up his hand so that Jean could catch a good view of the large amethyst ornamenting the finely tooled gold band.

Even someone with as a lowly an opinion of the religious practices of his church as Jean recognised what that ring meant. It was the kind of ring a church hierarch would be given to wear upon his consecration. It was styled like a wedding ring to represent his attachment to the church and the large stone it held was the colour of a bishop's garb.

Jean made a pathetic sound as he put together the facts in his head: Paris, the ring, the man's improbable age.

"You're the bishop of Luçon!"

The young bishop smiled and took a bow. "I am."

_I rescued the bishop of Luçon, Jean thought and couldn't help but be slightly in awe of himself. The bishop was the queen's confessor. Her favourite._

_And then I called him a 'choir boy'._

"I'm sorry, Monsieur. I didn't—"

"You'll find that the correct form of address would be 'Monseigneur'."

Jean's eyes widened in mortification.

"A thousand times pardon! But you must admit you don't exactly look like bishop!" 

"And what exactly does a bishop look like?" 

Jean bit his tongue. 

"Not like you," he offered after a pause.

The bishop regarded him out of impishly narrowed eyes – and sighed.

"I thank you for the demonstration of your battle prowess that saved my life, but, by comparison, your conversation leaves much to be desired."

"You're so young!" Jean felt as if the soil beneath his boots had turned into quicksand. "And you're not dressed like a bishop."

"Is that all?"

"It is."

Jean felt the blood heat his cheeks as he thought of what else he might say. Now that he had gotten a close look at the bishop it was as if Jean had been struck dumb by his appearance. He looked a little on the thin side, but even though the attack had clearly shaken him he moved with courtly grace. His face was a little too long and his nose a little too thin and hawkish for him to be called classically handsome. But he had those soft, dark brown curls, and those expressive, piercing grey eyes. And the less Jean thought about his lips the better.

No one could deny that his was a noble face; one that even though age had barely yet touched it commanded attention and authority. And he was tall. Jean could by no measurements be called small, but he had to look up at Luçon while they were standing so close, and he had trouble convincing himself that the thrill he felt at that realisation was entirely due to having just fought and survived a battle.

To his endless relief and odd disappointment Luçon did not press any further. 

"You still have the advantage of me. To whom do I owe my rescue?"

"Treville," Jean blurted out before he regained control over his tongue and repeated in a more dignified manner: "Jean du Peyrer de Treville." He pronounced it the way he always had, in the Gascon way, without the long French vowels. Only after he'd spoken did he remember that a bow would have been polite, but under the circumstances he hoped he'd be forgiven for forgetting about it.

"Treville?"

"My-My father is— Sieur de Treville, monseigneur. Was. My brother holds the land and title now. It's in Gascony."

Jean bit back a curse. He was hardly giving Luçon cause to re-evaluate his opinion of his rescuer's conversational skills in a favourable manner. 

"Gascony? I thought I recognised the accent."

Jean blushed. He couldn't help it. At least it wasn't anger he flushed with this time, but mere embarrassment. Lashing out at a bishop would win him no honour, even if should manage it in proper French.

But it turned out the bishop hadn't intended his words as a critique: "Thank heavens for the country nobility. Any other nobleman would have ridden past to prevent their doublet from getting bloody."

Jean couldn't help but grin in relief.

"Now, Treville," Luçon continued. "In the future you might want to remember that even bishops don't wear choir dress all day."

Something about this statement pulled Treville's senses back into focus.

It was a good point. Bishops dressed down when not officiating. But it did not explain the peculiar manner of Luçon's dress: dark, inornate, armed. The sword he had belted on was the only thing that distinguished him from a well-off bourgeois at a first glance. Even with it he had the look of a chevalier rather than a man of God. And he had hidden his ring of office.

And why on Earth did he travel on horseback instead of using carriage as befit his station?

"You're a bishop, what were you doing travelling with only seven guards?"

"I've been to attend to my diocese. But now Her Majesty's court must have me back, on short notice." 

Jean put every ounce of disbelief he could muster into his speech: "On horseback?"

"It is faster than riding in a carriage."

The next question was already lying ready on Jean's tongue, but Luçon cut him off.

"What is it you intend to imply? I merely valued speed over comfort for this journey."

Jean hadn't meant to imply anything. 

"What did these men want from you?"

"I have no idea. I must assume they were enemies of my Lady."

But the Queen was fond of Spain. The Captain was always complaining about how she tried to influence the King to be more lenient with their neighbours. 

"I wish to thank you again for intervening, but I must be on my way."

"Alone?" Jean didn't even think before he spoke. Despite Luçon's secretiveness, it would be a shame if anything happened to the handsome bishop after he'd just saved him. "You don't even have a horse anymore."

But Luçon merely pointed behind him. Two of his companions' mounts were standing nearby, grazing. They had to be well-trained not to have run off like the other horses. 

"You can help me shift my saddlebags," Luçon said as he walked over to the body of his chestnut horse. Jean trotted after him.

"I can escort you!"

"You? You can't even grow a proper beard."

"I'm nineteen!" Jean rubbed his stubble, feeling his anger spike again. If Belgard were here he would have a thing or two to say about Gascon temperament.

"Having beards sure didn't help your friends protect you."

"They're not my friends. I paid them to escort me to Paris, until they thought better of it."

"They said you weren't going to Paris?" Jean was thinking of the man with the patchy beard.

"A good number of them decided they weren't going to Paris any longer." He looked in the direction of the dead Spaniards. "These gentlemen likely convinced them it would be a good idea."

Jean mirrored the look of disgust he that flashed across the bishop's face before returned his attention to cutting his saddlebags of the horse's carcass. 

It was the worst sort of cowardice to take a man's money and then abandon him to his fate anyway.

Walking over to him, Jean helped Luçon pull out the bag that had gotten stuck under the dead beast.

"What is even in there that's so important?" He asked.

"Papers."

"Papers?" 

"Yes." 

Jean decided he liked Luçon better when he was being sarcastic but more talkative, but he helped him carry his papers as they approached dead men's horses.

The animals watched them suspiciously but Jean managed to catch one without trouble. He was just about to offer holding the horse for Luçon so he could safely stow away his precious papers when he noticed that the young bishop had wandered off to kneel next to the body of the Spaniard Jean had shot in the throat.

As he led the horse over to him Jean saw Luçon sigh and plunge his hands into the Spaniard's pockets. They were soaked through with blood and Luçon's hands were trembling.

Kneeling next to him, Jean offered him the horse's reins.

"Please, allow me."

"You have practice looting corpses?"

Jean flashed the bishop a frustrated look. He had never met anyone so averse to accepting help.

" _Touching_ them. More than you, anyway." 

He had expected another sarcastic comment, but Luçon shut up, and, evidently grateful that he didn't have to search the dead men, he walked a few steps away.

"What exactly am I looking for?"

"Papers. Jewellery. Anything to identify them."

"They sounded Spanish." But they were far from Spain here.

Luçon continued to study the horizon for a while before he answered. "I don't know. Their nationality might not matter if they're mercenaries."

"This one's got some coin. Some florins … and Spanish coin."

Richelieu walked back over to him. "Doubloons," he said. "At least there were paid well for attacking a bishop."

Jean frowned. "Do mercenaries usually get paid well before they finish the job?"

Luçon shrugged and turned back to his new horse. Jean helped him hoist his bags over the excited animal's back as the bishop was still trembling slightly.

If he had been a girl or a fellow soldier, Jean might have gotten away with hugging him, but since he was a bishop, Treville had to be satisfied with holding his horse for him as he mounted. Even pale and trembling, even with a bruised jaw and even though the guard's dark horse wasn't nearly as impressively built as the horse with the shimmering chestnut coat that had been shot dead under him, the bishop still made a handsome figure.

Sitting on his new horse, Luçon took a moment to think before he did something Jean hadn't expected.

"Since we are going in the same direction, and I have lost my guards, I wouldn't mind your company on the road, if you're still so adamant to offer it."

Jean didn't have to think twice. "Of course, Monseigneur."

And then Luçon smiled. It was nothing like appraising look Jean had been given at the inn or the nervous smiles he had seen after Luçon had fallen off his horse. It was a genuine smile, and it was directed at Jean.

_Heavens!_

If only he weren't so vexing.

If only he weren't a bishop.

And when had Jean started to suspect that a Catholic priest's attachment to his faith might be genuine anyway?

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as the middle-part of a much longer fic about Treville’s youth, but since I don’t know if/when I’ll ever get around to write more I decided to post this, because there needs to be more how-they-met-fic for Trevilieu, and I really enjoy my little head-canon.


End file.
